


Heroics

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:52:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, sure, Chris is a hero, bringing his character's feat to life; but how is John supposed to act now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heroics

His head is ringing loudly with the impact of the fall but J.J. keeps saying it could have been worse, wringing his hands and fetching more people to help. A PA hands him a cup of water, which he pushes onto John. He drinks dutifully, following the boss's implicit orders.

"I swear, John, I don't even know how that happened...shit. Someone's gonna pay for this. I mean, if Pine hadn't been right there..."

John blinks and tries to process the scant information, looking over at Chris, sitting a few feet away and getting similarly pampered. A few craft service people are calling him a hero. He waves sheepishly to John and shrugs; behind him, there's a fallen beam that isn't supposed to be there, the weighty end of it wedged into the floor of the set.

He tells himself to wave back and then looks away, fighting the urge to pass out.

*

"God, it was so cool, John. You should have been there."

"I _was_ there, Anton."

"Yeah, but...you know. You didn't really _see_."

John exhales and takes a large sip of the beer he isn't supposed to be drinking, what with his mild concussion from being pushed out of harm's way by one heroic Christopher Pine, and into the path of a large chair instead. He supposes he got the better end of the deal but his forehead still hurts like a bitch. He ignores Anton's rantings and scrolls through the messages on his BlackBerry, noting the changes to his shooting schedule, thanks to his injury. Not even their best makeup artists can cover up the bump and bruising he's currently sporting.

On the other side of the room, people lift their glasses in a toast to Chris Pine, Hero. John knows he ought to go and join them, that he hasn't said thanks yet and probably seems ungrateful, but he's suddenly so tired and his bump is giving him a headache.

"Say g'bye to everyone for me," he murmurs to Anton, sliding off his stool.

"You're lucky to be alive; you know that, John?" he responds.

"Don't be morbid," John says, abandoning his beer.

*

He calls a few nights later, finding himself unable to sleep. He's not surprised to catch Chris awake, even at three in the morning.

"Hey, John, you okay? How you feeling?" Chris asks. John purses his lips and idly touches the bandage on his forehead.

"I'm fine, really. I just wanted to say...I mean, I realized—it occurred to me that I never...y'know, said thanks. For what you did."

There's a long moment during which no one speaks and John fidgets, tugging at a cuticle with his teeth. He feels stupidly exposed and can't figure out why. He thinks about his scene in the script with Chris, the one they've had to put off because of this entire incident, where Sulu falls off the drill and Kirk jumps off blindly to save him. Just like the way Chris saw that metal beam falling from the overhead on-set construction, headed right toward John's head, and tackled him just in time. He wonders just how he's supposed to act through that scene now. He twists his tongue in his mouth, the word "thanks" gone sour upon the tip.

"No thanks necessary," Chris finally says. "You would have done the same for me."

"Well...I should have said it before."

"Like I said, John: it's okay. I figured you were probably freaked out about it; I wasn't just sitting around and waiting for you to thank me."

John frowns, curling his fingers tighter around the phone. "Look, I just called to say thanks and that's all I want to say. So, thanks, okay?"

"Yeah, okay...welcome." Chris pauses and John hears the sound of a television in the background. He wonders for a moment if Chris is also up so late because he can't sleep, as opposed to being up for the hell of it. "Look, John," he says, quieter now, "I just—"

"Uh, my head's killing me. I should get some sleep. Later, man."

The edge of the tub digs into the backs of his thighs as he stares at his phone and wills it to ring again. It doesn't.

*

He's falling, falling, and then Chris launches himself at him and holds on so tight that John can't remember his body weight before this moment. Chris doesn't just hold on, he _clings_ , because here and now, Kirk and Sulu are scared little boys falling through the clouds of a foreign sky and he's following the script, interpreting the rampant emotions to the letter. If Sulu's supposed to say something, John can't remember; he clenches his teeth and breathes, breathes so hard that his nostrils flare and tears threaten to leak from the corners of his eyes.

He's almost surprised that his harness doesn't break, that disaster doesn't strike a second time. Even after J.J. yells "cut," he can't quite stop trembling and he's pretty sure that Chris notices.

John makes it to his trailer and paces twice across the length of it before there's a loud banging on the door. He doesn't have to ask to know that it's Chris, and when he opens the door, he's nearly tackled again, enveloped in the warm and protective embrace of his friend. John curses into the crook of Chris' neck and tries to grab onto some part of his costume, something he can wrap his hand around. He finds the back of Chris' head instead and pulls him down for a fumbling kiss.

His bump is mostly gone now, the bruising a faded memory, but Chris still sweeps his thumb over John's forehead, like he's searching for proof of his heroic deed. John pretends not to notice, working his cheek muscles harder around Chris' long, rigid cock.

*

John looks at the clock: half past two. He always has trouble sleeping in strange beds. He's relieved when he sees Chris coming in from the bathroom, turning the light off behind him.

"Hey," Chris whispers. "Why're you awake? Thought you fell asleep an hour ago."

"Guess I woke up." John watches Chris' sweatpants dangle from his waist, drooping below the defined muscles; thinks about sitting up to lick and taste the curvature. "Your bed's all lumpy and shit," he says.

"Like your head," Chris supplies.

"Your fault."

"For your own good."

John closes his eyes when he feels the mattress dip behind him, exhales gratefully when Chris' strong arms embrace him. He tastes "thanks" on his tongue again and swallows it down; Chris doesn't need to hear it to know he means it.

"You're always up late," he mumbles into the pillow. "You vampire." Chris kisses his temple.

"I like to be alert, just in case something happens."

"Always trying to be a hero."

Chris makes a sound of agreement. "Trying," he says.


End file.
